


Love Me (Four Times)

by lettersbyelise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (one-sided and reciprocated), Bath Kink, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Bottom Harry Potter, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Gift Fic, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Angst, M/M, Moving In Together, POV Draco Malfoy, Sleepy Sex, Switching, Top Draco Malfoy, Top Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16202264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersbyelise/pseuds/lettersbyelise
Summary: “I love you,” he whispers, because it’s dark.It’s still easier when Harry can’t see him.DracoknowsHarry. He knows his strong shapely hands. He knows every inch of his body and how to take him over the edge. He knows his fears and insecurities. He knows Harry’s heart.Draco knows that Harry loves him.He doesn't need him to say it.Does he?





	Love Me (Four Times)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Slip Into My Lover's Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4410587) by [lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks). 



> Dear [lqt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks), 
> 
> Thank you for not laughing in my face when I came to you with this idea, and for being incredibly encouraging instead. I was thrilled and also a bit stressed about writing this. Your fics (including [_Slip Into My Lover's Hands_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4410587)) have been with me since the very beginning of my Drarry journey and I'm incredibly grateful that I've gotten to know you.
> 
> A gazillion thanks go to my wonder-beta [MaesterChill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/pseuds/MaesterChill) for holding my hand and letting me cry about my own inadequacy while simultaneously helping me kick this little piece of writing into shape. You're The Best, _ma chérie_ <333
> 
> Thank you, [Bixgirl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1), for answering lqt-related questions and for being unrelentingly honest with me. When I asked her why we were doing this to ourselves, she told me: "Because (lqt's) an awesome person and deserves cool things and _we are stupid_." Truer words have never been said. Well, except for the stupid part. Bix isn't stupid. She's _amazing_ and I barely deserve to share fandom space with her  <33

Harry’s skin burns under Draco’s palms, beads of sweat gathering in the crook of his arched nape. Draco leans in and touches his tongue to it, licking salt into his mouth without breaking the slow rocking of his hips. Harry’s hands curl into fists on the forest green covers of Draco’s bed. He rams back into Draco and moans, a low, strangled noise that goes straight to Draco’s bollocks.

Draco is completely lost for Harry, everyone knows it by now. It’s become a running joke among their friends. _Gonna go write a two-foot parchment on the cycles of Jupiter?_ Theo had said, loudly, when Draco had disappeared after Harry in the stairwell leading to the dorms. Draco had ignored the raucous laughter and wolf whistles that followed him up the stairs.

Hard to care when you’re the Chosen One’s—well, _chosen one._

It’s even harder to care when he gets to fuck Harry like this, in his bed, in his dorm room, in the Hogwarts castle blessedly empty of students on the last day of the school year. Everyone left, they’re all out on the grounds, basking in the warm sunlight, skipping rocks on the Great Lake. There are even a few students playing _foot-balls_ —weird name, so Draco isn’t sure, it’s something he heard Harry and Dean’s discuss enthusiastically when someone had mentioned a friendly match a few hours earlier.

In the end, Harry didn’t join them. It seems he can’t resist the lure of sex with Draco. No matter how improbable, how mind-blowing it is to Draco, Harry Potter still wants to have sex with him any occasion he gets. If they hadn’t been sneaking around for months already, Draco would have to pinch himself. Getting a dorm room to themselves has only happened a couple of times since the beginning of the year, but each time they’ve made the most of it, going for second and thirds until they were both so wrung out and blissed out that all they could do was lie side by side on messy sheets, fingers entwined, Harry’s thumb lightly stroking Draco’s wrist as they caught their breath.

He often thinks about what Harry told him that evening, shortly after they came back to Hogwarts, months ago. They’d both been sitting on a sofa near the fireplace of their Eighth Year common room. Harry had brought a Butterbeer bottle to his pretty mouth, as though what they were having was just a casual conversation between friendly acquaintances, and not the olive branch Draco had been waiting for for the past eight years.

 _I could have been a Slytherin,_ Harry had said.

 _The Sorting Hat considered it at first,_ he’d said.

 _I guess I have a little bit of Slytherin in me,_ he’d said.

There had been a mischievous sparkle in his eye, and the realisation had hit Draco like a Hippogriff’s talons in the chest.

That maybe, just maybe, Harry wanted him just as much as he wanted Harry.

He drapes himself over Harry’s back. He rolls his hips to drive his cock deeper into Harry’s arse, drawing a shocked gasp from him. And he murmurs into his hair, “How do you like a few extra inches of Slytherin _in you,_ Potter?”

Draco’s attempt at dirty talk doesn’t have the desired effect: Harry bursts out laughing. Draco bites his lip, half in mortification and half to avoid coming on the spot from Harry’s arse clenching around his cock with each fit of giggles. He pushes up from Harry’s back and stops moving, all his trembling weight resting on his knees, his hands on Harry’s hips.

“Merlin, Draco,” Harry laughs and turns his head, catching Draco’s eye over his shoulder. “That was corny as fuck.”

Draco feels his face heat. “Fuck off, Harry.”

“Oh, I think you’re taking care of _that_ just fine,” Harry smiles wickedly. He resumes his slow rocking, on his hands and knees. He fucks himself on Draco’s prick, and Draco bites back a moan. He lays his hands on each of Harry’s arse cheeks and grabs them and opens him further, mesmerised by the sight of his slick cock disappearing into his arse, by the feel of Harry’s groans reverberating all the way to Draco’s toes.

“Your dirty talk is no better than mine,” Draco whines as Harry moves with more intent, forcing Draco to buck forward again, to meet him halfway.

“It’s not a contest,” Harry says. “If it was, I’d win.” He’s smiling. Draco can tell by the rise of his cheekbones, highlighted by the afternoon sun.

He’s good at this. Draco tells him every time he gets to fuck him. He’s a natural, the way he takes it, the way he moans like Draco’s cock is the best thing that happened to him, the way he moves so intuitively, like he was fucking made for it.

It leaves Draco breathless and a little envious, how uninhibited Harry is.

Draco wasn’t raised that way. But then again, neither was Harry.

Without warning, Draco pulls out. He puts his hand between Harry’s shoulder blades, pushes him flat on the mattress and kneels between his open legs. Harry sprawls out on the cover, his back heaving with his breaths, his bollocks round and dark among the wild black curls between his legs, his pink arsehole shiny with lube.

He turns his head on the pillow and gives Draco his most devastating smile.

“I don’t know what that’s about,” he says, “but I like it.”

Draco sits back on his heels and admires Harry while Harry looks back at him, flushed and expectant.

“Come on,” Harry says eventually, voice dropping low and husky. “Are you going to finish this or what?”

Draco doesn’t need more taunting. He grabs Harry’s hips and lines his cock to his entrance and pushes past the tight rim of his arse. Harry is so slick and so loose that Draco bottoms out in one thrust. “Fuck,” he breathes, and rolls his hips against Harry’s arse, deep and slow, the way Harry likes it when they have the luxury of time.

The way Harry fucked _him,_ that very first time.

Harry moans and turns his head again, opening a sliver of green eye to look at Draco while he fucks him.

Harry’s never been what one might call classically beautiful. Neither has Draco, in all honesty. Draco is skinny and angular and pointy and too pale.

And Harry…

Harry looks like he grew up in the streets, broken nose and scarred skin and hair messy beyond hope. He’s not perfect, but he’s still beautiful. Scars and ruggedness don’t make it any less true. He arches his back with each of Draco’s thrusts, the bumps of his spine sticking out like a mountain range. Harry was thin as a rail when Draco first saw him naked, just a few months out of the war. He could have counted his ribs. He could have snapped him in half, if he wasn’t skin and bones himself. It broke his heart. So much magic, so much power, trapped in a body that would require months of hearty Hogwarts fare to recover.

Harry’s lean muscles, newly built, ripple under his skin.

Draco would do anything for him.

He already did.

He would again, in a heartbeat.

Harry has started rocking into the mattress, his cock desperate for friction. Draco responds, fucks him faster, harder, and Harry groans with each of his thrusts, “Draco, Draco, Draco.” There’s no need for dirty talk when he says his name like that. He’s going to— Maybe he should warn him—

“Harry,” Draco’s voice comes out strangled.

“Yes,” Harry says, and it’s not a question. His green eye is trained on Draco and he watches him as Draco’s whole body stills against his and he comes, hips shuddering against his arse.

“God, _Draco,”_ he moans again, and he fucks himself harder, on Draco’s cock and against the mattress, before he comes seconds later, his arse clenching around Draco’s over-sensitive prick, wringing out the last shivers of his orgasm.

Later, draped over Harry’s back, Draco covers Harry’s hand with his, fingers entwined. He presses his lips to Harry’s ear, and Harry smiles.

“I love you,” Draco tells him, because it’s always easier when Harry’s not looking at him.

Harry’s voice is warm and velvety as if he’s about to fall asleep. “I know you do.”

Draco kisses his neck, light touches that feel like breaths. Harry shifts under him, turning to rise on his elbow.

“I’m going to miss this,” he says, languidly.

Draco’s stomach drops. “Oh,” he says. Oh, no. He _knew_ it. He knew it was too good to last. _Fucking stupid,_ he thinks. Eighth Year is over, and so is this thing with Harry. _Stupid, stupid._ How could he have thought—

“Not—God, Draco. Not _us.”_ Harry rolls his eyes, his smile affectionate. “I meant sneaking around Hogwarts, you dolt.” He touches his fingers to Draco’s cheek. Draco can’t help but lean into the caress like a needy Kneazle.

It’s so embarrassingly clear that Harry is his weakness.

Harry continues, “And I’m going to miss… What else? Hmm.” He looks up at the four-poster’s ceiling, pretending to think. “Blowing you in the Quidditch showers. Stealthily fucking you in the Prefects’ Bathroom.”

“Shouldn’t _all_ fucking be stealthy, though? Isn’t public fucking a reprehensible offense?” Draco asks, a subtle tactics to ignore the way he blushes at Harry’s words.

“Ugh, you’re impossible,” Harry sighs exaggeratedly. “Remind me again why I’m doing this?”

“Because you have a thing for fit blondes with a sharp repartee?”

Harry snorts. He turns in Draco’s arms to face him. The look he gives him is unbearably fond. Draco struggles to hold his gaze.

 _“Because,”_ Harry smiles and leans in to breathe his next words in Draco’s ear, “you’re the best lay I’ve ever had, Draco Malfoy.”

The words are mischievous, uncomplicated and truthful, the way Harry is. Draco breaks eye contact, afraid he will reveal too much. “Your frame of reference is terribly lacking in that area, Potter,” he sniffs.

“Maybe,” Harry says, “but how much more spectacular can orgasms get?”

His eyes glimmer with humour. Reluctantly, Draco smiles. “I’d fear for my life if sex got any better.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Harry moves into his embrace, fits himself closer to Draco’s body.

They stay like this for a while, wrapped around one another, the only sound their quiet breathing and the happy cries of their schoolmates in the distance. Draco catalogues the sensations: lying against fresh sheets. A naked, shagged-out Harry Potter in his arms. The thyme-and-pine scent of their cleaning charms surrounding them. Their bodies buoyed by the gentle ebb of their recent orgasms.

The moment couldn’t be more perfect if Draco had made it up in one of his Fifth Year daydreams.

Of course he has to ruin it, because— _story of his life,_ really.

He gathers the little courage he possesses. His life would be simpler if he had successfully depleted his stock of bravery. Unfortunately, dating a Gryffindor in semi-secret seems to have the opposite effect.

“You don’t have to miss it,” he whispers, his breath caressing Harry’s lips.

Harry’s eyes lift to meet his.

He knows what Draco means, and yet Draco sees it.

_Hesitant._

It’s the hesitancy that pushes Draco to trudge through.

“We could do this. Every day. As much as we’d like. You know— _together.”_ Merlin, what a time to lose his loquacious clarity. He clears his throat. “We could be together. If you’d like.”

Harry pulls back an inch. He studies Draco’s face.

There’s something almost— _painful_ in his eyes, in the tilt of his eyebrows.

Draco’s throat tightens.

Then Harry lifts his hands to Draco’s face, cupping the back of his neck, sliding his thumb across his cheek. He moves close, closer. He kisses him.

He kisses him, urgently, ferocious lips and teeth. His tongue finds Draco’s, the hot softness of it still a shock even after a thousand kisses.

He kisses Draco like he owns him—and like he’s Draco’s, too.

Draco is overcome with want. He presses close to Harry, their bodies sliding against one another. Harry’s other hand trails along his inner forearm and he takes Draco’s hand in his own, holding his fingers, kissing his knuckles.

Draco’s hard in seconds.

“Your hands,” he whispers.

“You’re fixating,” Harry laughs quietly.

“I am _not,”_ Draco says. “If I could keep only one part of you, it would be your hands.”

Harry’s hard against him, too, but he doesn’t press it. He smiles. “So you can be rid of me?”

“No.” Draco kisses his face. “Never.” Harry hums softly under his lips, and Draco tries again. “So, what do you say?”

Harry’s face is very close to his. He holds Draco’s gaze, fearless, fond.

It’s as though he was made for Draco.

His dark skin against Draco’s white skin.

His black curls twinning with his blond hair.

His green eyes, the compass of Draco’s life.

His half-Gryffindor, half-Slytherin heart, beating against his.

He leans in and kisses Draco’s lips, nodding as he does.

“Let’s live together. Yes.”

 

****

 

They move in together, a sunny flat in a brownstone overlooking the Islington Canal, just off Upper Street.

Their friends are a little stunned.

The press , though—the press goes _batshit crazy._ Can you imagine? _Harry Potter_ and Draco Malfoy? Harry Potter and _Draco Malfoy?_ With the bad company he keeps, no wonder the Boy Who Lived chose to live in a Muggle neighbourhood instead of the expected townhouse in the Wizarding Quarter. Or even Grimmauld Place, which Harry, in a generous gesture worthy of his hero status, decided to donate to a war orphan fund.

Luckily, both Harry and Draco stopped reading the press after the war, so they are spared the worst of the derogatory headlines.

Their flat is small, but their bathroom is ridiculously spacious. Draco may or may not have thrown a few Expanding charms around when they took possession of the place. He widened the bath with a wave of his wand, Harry leaning in the doorway and watching him with a knowing half-smile. Draco blushed, pretending to be focused on his task.

So much for not being obvious.

The bath is the first place they fuck in. “Our own private housewarming party,” Harry murmurs, smiling smugly against Draco’s collarbone as they both come down from their orgasms. He yelps and laughs when Draco pinches his side.

“If you’re going to be saying things like these, you’re not allowed to make fun of my dirty talk, Potter. _Ever.”_

Life is good for a while. Harry helps Ron and George at the store. Draco apprentices at an apothecary on Diagon Alley.

It’s a prestigious internship position. The _Daily Prophet_ writes fiery articles about it.

No one cared about Draco’s privileges when they derived from long-established pureblood traditions. The same privileges are suddenly intolerable now that they’re suspected to derive from dating the most eligible wizard in Britain.

Harry doesn’t care, and Draco learns to ignore the stares.

He’s good at his job.

He’s getting better.

When Harry slides into bed that night, Draco is just beginning to fall asleep. Harry announces his presence with a warm hand in the dip between ribs and hip. Draco rolls on his back, sleepily, and Harry slides a thigh between his legs, the coarse hair tickling Draco’s skin.

“Do you want to…” Harry whispers, as though mindful not to fully wake him.

Draco nods in the dark. “Yes,” he confirms, in case Harry hasn’t sensed his movement. His prick is hard in record time, bumping against Harry’s arm. It’s a rather obvious giveaway.

Harry laughs soundlessly, his breath warm against Draco’s cheek. “Eager?”

“Fuck off,” Draco laughs, a bit exasperated. He sometimes wishes his body wouldn’t betray him so readily.

“We’ll see,” Harry says. His hand spreads Draco’s thighs under the covers. He touches tentative fingers to Draco’s hole—slicked fingers, the bastard wordlessly conjured lube, Merlin, Draco could hate him if he didn’t— _oh, fuck._

_Yes._

“Yes,” he says aloud, and Harry pushes a knuckle in.

 _Oh, Merlin._ He should be used to it by now. Yet Harry’s finger still feels as impossibly thick as the first time he felt it there.

Only now, he’s no longer afraid. He’s no longer nervous. He knows exactly just how good Harry’s hands can feel.

“More,” he whispers. Harry doesn’t need to ask if he’s sure; he complies. The initial stretch is still a surprise, and Draco’s cock drips a spurt of precome that trickles on his belly and on Harry’s arm. Harry lets out a shocked, delighted breath.

“Merlin. How are you so hot?” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Draco wants to answer something witty and sarcastic, but his mind goes blank when Harry withdraws his finger, then pushes it back in. Out, then in.

His breathing speeds up. He lets his jaw go slack, lets out a soft moan when Harry slides a second finger in. “Harry, _yes,”_ he breathes, for his sake as much as Harry’s.

Draco’s skin is still warm from sleep when Harry settles between his legs, the weight of his body and the feel of his erection making Draco buck into him with a needy whine. Harry doesn’t wait for permission—oh, _fuck yes,_ Draco secretly loves when he doesn’t—the hard length of his cock sliding between his cheeks, the fat head dragging across his wet hole. It’s dark, and he’s surrounded by Harry, enfolded in Harry, Harry’s hot breaths bathing his face with almost unbearable intimacy.

And then Harry’s cock pushes in, two inches, then out, two, then out. The stretch is a little much, and Draco idly muses about a third finger perhaps, but he welcomes the burn, spreads wider for Harry, wants to feel him all the way to the next morning. Harry pushes his cock deeper, tiny breathy whines that only make Draco’s cock harder. It throbs, leaking more precome on his stomach. This would almost be embarrassing if Harry didn’t let out a little moan that sounded like laughter at the feel of it.

“Fuck, Draco. You’re so _—tight._ You feel amazing,” he murmurs, awed, as though it’s the first time he’s inside Draco.

Draco’s face heats. He hears himself say, “So do you. You feel so good, Harry.”

It’s so simple, yet so straightforward, so true.

The Gryffindorness of it is mortifying, and Draco revels in it.

Harry starts moving, braced on his elbows. Draco wraps his thighs around his hips and lets him take him, deep and slow, as though on the verge of sleep. It’s quiet, the wet slapping of Harry’s bollocks against Draco’s arse the only sound. Harry moves like water, instinctive, encompassing. It’s like being back in that bath again, every time, the frightening trust Draco puts in him.

Harry lets out a ragged groan and lifts Draco’s legs over his shoulders. _Ah, yes, here it comes,_ Draco thinks and bites his lip not to cry out when the head of Harry’s cock grazes his prostate. Harry likes to finish like that, with Draco bent in half under him, at his mercy, his thick cock pounding into him until he comes inside Draco’s tight hole. So Draco slides his hand between their bodies, wraps it around his own prick and starts pulling in rhythm with Harry’s thrusts.

“Fuck, baby, yes, touch yourself,” Harry grunts, a bit mindless with the imminence of his orgasm. “I want you to come with my cock in you.” Draco wanks himself frantically—he feels it, he’s close—then comes with a shout, back arching, cock pulsing ribbons of spunk in his fist, on his belly, on Harry’s chest. He throws his head back on the pillow and watches Harry fuck him, his vision half-lidded and blurred by the tide of satiation.

“You’re going to let me do all the hard work, aren’t you?” Harry says, but he looks so bloody pleased with himself that Draco just smirks lazily.

“I was sleeping. You woke me up. It’s only fair.”

Harry barks a laugh and bends Draco even further, Draco’s legs on both sides of his own face. Draco slides his hands over Harry’s arse and grabs, rough and encouraging. Harry stills against him, his eyes screwed shut. _“Fuck,”_ he grunts, and comes with a breathless groan. Draco’s bent over so tight that he feels every throb of Harry’s cock inside him, the slick slide of it, Harry’s come dripping out with each of his last, hopeful thrusts.

Draco lets out a shaky sigh. He just… _likes come,_ alright? It’s the one thing that makes fucking in a bed better than fucking in a bath.

Slowly, Harry opens his eyes. The streetlight catches on his lashes. He looks so soft. Sated, but not only.

It’s the sex, but not only.

He’s _happy_. And Draco is the cause of that.

Draco lifts his left hand, the one that is still clean, and touches his knuckles to his cheek.

“I love you,” he whispers, because it’s dark.

It’s still easier when Harry can’t see him.

Harry smiles into his touch. “I know you do.”

 

****

 

“Ginny and Neville are getting married.”

Harry drops the bags on the kitchen table. Inside, Draco knows he’ll find dishes of Molly Weasley’s Sunday roast leftovers under stasis charms: roast beef, crisp baked potatoes, carrots and peas. Maybe even a couple of portions of chocolate pudding.

He looks up from his notes and finds Harry standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the floor, arms crossed over his chest, hands clenched around his forearms. His lovely, loving hands, white-knuckled with tension now.

The sight sends Draco on high alert.

This isn’t a regular statement. Harry is upset.

Somehow, Draco knows his Sunday is not going to end as well as it started.

“Congratulations to them,” he says, flatly. He doesn’t want to push Harry. “I can see you’re upset,” he adds, more kindly. “Care to explain why?”

“They announced it and—and everyone was so goddamned _happy_ for them. They all got up and huddled around them. And—and—” He throws his hands up, rakes his fingers across his messy hair, “I wanted to be happy for them, I really did. How much of an arse does that make me?”

Draco dreads where this is going. Somewhere unpleasant, no doubt, judging by the dark look Harry pierces him with. It’s an instinctive fear. He’s reminded of being forced to walk through the Forbidden Forest at night as an eleven-year-old kid. There’s a possibility that he will come out of this sound and whole, but there’s also a very real chance that he’ll end up torn to bits.

It’s his cowardice that presses him to continue. “I gather you _weren’t_ happy?”

Harry’s look is almost hurt.

“No, Draco. I wasn’t.”

“Why is that?”

With one sharp shake of his head, Harry starts pacing the kitchen. “She’s my ex-girlfriend. Isn’t it normal?”

Draco’s gut clenches. To avoid looking at Harry, he takes his time, fastidiously screws the cap of his ink pot and places his quill inside its case.

When he’s done, he stares at his hands, laid on top of his parchments.

“I don’t know, Harry. I’ve never had one.”

“Do you wish you had?”

Harry’s stopped pacing. He’s scowling at him, hands on his hips. It’s a provocation, and Draco should know better.

“No, I don’t. I’m fairly happy with my _current_ boyfriend, and I find your insinuations quite hurtful.”

Harry’s eyes flash. It’s useless to talk to him when he’s like this. _You should know better,_ the little voice in Draco’s head repeats.

 _“Hurtful?”_ Harry’s voice is strangled.

“Are you regretting your choices?” Draco asks, flatly. “Do you wish you were in Neville’s place?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You said you weren’t happy for them. Everyone else was, but _you_ weren’t. Am I to understand there is a different interpretation?”

“You don’t know anything,” Harry growls, menacing. “It has nothing to do with—with _regretting_ anything. But… the Weasleys… they could have been my family. Neville is going to be part of the family. And I’m never—”

He stops, presses his fist on his mouth. Draco recognises the gesture from his own past.

_Fuck, is he going to cry?_

He rises from his chair. Extends his hand towards Harry.

“Harry—”

Harry jerks away from him. Draco bristles.

“What is it? You’re never _what?_ Becoming a part of their family? Bloody hell, Harry, if you think for one second they don’t love you as much as one of their own children—”

“That’s not it, no,” Harry shakes his head again, looks away.

“What?” And then, “Oh.”

He sits back in his chair.

They look at each other for a long time.

Draco forgets to breathe.

It’s so quiet he can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the next room.

“Harry,” he says eventually. “I’m sure Ginny and Neville are great together, but—they’re not _better_ than us. They’re not— _more committed._ Just because they’re getting married… If you wanted to, we… we could—” He holds Harry’s gaze, those green eyes that used to burn him.

He wants to look at him when he says it.

It’s not easy, but good things never are.

“I love you,” he tells him.

Harry’s expression barely wavers at the words. “I know you do.”

Suddenly, it’s too much. Draco can’t stand to still be in this kitchen, at this table crowded with bags and rolls of parchment, with this man who knows Draco loves him and seems so determined to never reciprocate in kind.

“I have to go,” he says. He stands, walks out of the kitchen, grabs his coat hanging by the front door. He doesn’t wait to see if Harry’s following him.

There are no footsteps running after him.

Harry hasn’t moved.

Draco opens the door, and slams it, pettily, on his way out.

 

****

 

Draco lowers himself into the water. It's hot, just this side of bearable, and he breathes a reluctant sigh of relief. Harry would scold him for the temperature of his bath, but Harry’s not home, so who cares. _Sod him,_ Draco thinks, bitterly.

Tears prickle his eyes.

He tells himself it’s the scalding water.

He took a long, sullen walk that afternoon, passing street after London street without really seeing them. He ended up walking along the Thames, its waters thick and lazy like a mudslide, Charing Cross, Big Ben, Westminster, yep, the Muggles sure have a taste for grandiose architecture. The sun was setting and the city was lighting up like Diagon Alley on Christmas when Draco noticed he’d been gone for hours. _Maybe Harry’s worried._ He dismissed the thought with a furious shake of his head. Harry Potter could go fuck himself.

He went back home. He looked up at their building from the street. There weren’t any lights on in their flat. No one was waiting for him. He didn’t know why the realisation hurt—he should have known.

_He should have known._

He ran himself a bath, not to cheer himself up, but to numb himself down.

While he'd grown up taking long, leisurely baths at the Manor, Draco had lost the habit when he'd arrived at Hogwarts. The Quidditch showers were functional, to put it mildly, the main goal of them to clean yourself as quickly and efficiently as possible from sweat, dust, mud and occasionally blood. Might as well have lined the Quidditch team up and sprayed them down with a firehose. The Slytherin showers were a bit more indulgent, but then again they were only _showers,_ not baths. Getting access to the Prefect Bathroom in Fifth Year had been reason enough to be happy with his Prefect nomination.

He'd been so surprised to find out that Potter knew about the Prefect Bathroom—surprised and, to be completely honest, a little bit angry. Did the git know _everything?_ Was there a part of the castle he _hadn't_ been allowed to explore?

Draco had felt like he was robbed of a privilege, having to share it with Potter. He'd never met anyone he'd had cause to be jealous of before. He’d never met anyone who had what Draco hadn't. What Draco _wanted._

Turns out, it's not what Potter _had_ that Draco wanted.

What he wanted was _Potter,_ full stop.

Draco closes his eyes.

He fell in love with Potter the way children do: slowly, then all at once. One day, Potter was nothing but his arch-nemesis, and the next he was… he was _everything._ For Draco, the turning point was excruciatingly clear: a bathroom where neither of them had business to be, the air heavy with the scent of perfumed bubbles and their arousal, the water warm against their skin. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel Potter’s hands on him, his fingers tentatively breaching him. He could still feel his hot, careful breaths against the back of his neck, see the way his face tensed and relaxed as he came inside him for the first time.

You’d have to have a heart of stone not to fall in love with Harry in that moment.

Draco was only human.

The tub is cold and hard against the back of his head. Draco grabs his wand and casts a quick cushioning charm. He makes himself comfortable, arms dangling from the side of the tub, head laid back, his whole body immersed in water so hot it turns his skin pink and makes sweat break on his brow. He doesn’t want to think about what will happen next. He’s grown rather keen on their shared flat, its decadently large bathroom, its sunny kitchen, its bed that always smells a bit like Harry even when he’s not around.

He doesn’t want to think. He takes a deep breath, the hot, humid steam of the bath calming his nerves. He lies in the water for what feels like a long time.

Suddenly there’s movement next to him, and he jolts himself awake.

“Hello,” says Harry, eyes bright behind fogged glasses. He’s sitting on the side of the bathtub, fully clothed.

“Hello,” Draco answers, wary.

“After you left. I took a walk,” he says. “Went to see Ron and Hermione.”

“Knocked some sense into you, did they?” Draco says. Sarcasm suits him better than vulnerability. He’s allowed himself to be vulnerable around Harry for too long.

“They did, as a matter of fact. They didn’t say much, you know? Just reminded me of the things that matter.”

“Which are?” Draco asks defiantly.

“You, for a start,” Harry says, eyes earnest. “What we have. What we’ve had for years. How much I was obsessed with you, when we were at Hogwarts. How much I still am.” He takes a breath. “I’m sorry. I acted like an arse. I forgot—I forgot that I’m the luckiest bastard in England. You’re the best—the best _person._ The best _man._ You’ve been the best man for a while.”

Draco feels his face heat. The bath water is lukewarm now and he can’t blame his blush on it. His cock twitches against his thigh.

Harry looks into the water, straight between Draco’s legs. He lifts an amused eyebrow.

“Happy to see me?”

“Sod off, Potter,” Draco turns his flaming face away. Harry laughs.

“You are, though. Aren’t you?”

“It’s a Pavlovian response, you git.”

“To being in a bath?”

“To being in a bath near you.”

Harry’s smile fades a little. He stands, pulls his shirt up and off, unzips the flies of his jeans. Draco turns to look at him, slightly alarmed. His cock, on the other hand, fills so fast it steals his breath away.

“What are you doing?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious. I’m wearing too many clothes to join you. I need to remedy this issue.”

Draco wants to keep the scowl on his face. He really does. Harry deserves it.

He’s never been able to resist the pushy prat, though.

Reluctantly, he smiles. “Git.”

Harry lowers his jeans and pants in one go. “Yep. I deserved that.”

And suddenly, his beautiful, long, thick cock is on display, just a few inches above Draco’s head. Draco swallows.

“Get the fuck in this bath,” he croaks.

Laughing, Harry steps over the side of the tub, into the water, between Draco’s legs. Facing away from him so that Draco gets a view of his pretty arse, he lowers himself into the water, lying back against Draco’s chest. Draco’s arms slide under his arms and enclose him of their own accord.

It’s a habit acquired long ago, in another bathroom.

They stay quiet, just breathing, swaying together very slowly.

“I want to be with you,” Harry says eventually, so low Draco could almost miss it.

“So do I,” he murmurs against Harry’s hair.

He doesn’t elaborate.

It’s Harry’s turn.

It’s all in Harry’s hands.

Harry’s hands come to rest over his. He entwines their fingers together.

Draco’s always been so weak for these hands.

“I’m going to say something. To _ask_ _you_ something.” He can feel Harry swallow against a tight throat. “And it’s not—it’s not because Gin and Neville are getting married, okay? It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”

“Yes,” Draco says. “Yes, Harry.”

Harry turns to look at him. It’s an awkward angle. It makes Draco’s heart ache in his chest. It’s the best kind of pain.

He presses a kiss to Harry’s temple before Harry has time to speak again. He says, “All of it. Yes.”

Harry’s eyes are on him, brimming with something that mirrors how Draco feels. He lifts his hand from Draco’s, touches Draco’s cheekbone reverently.

He’s grinning like a loon.

He’s the most perfect thing Draco has ever seen.

“I love you,” Harry tells him, because he might be scared of his own heart sometimes, but he’s still half a bloody Gryffindor.

Draco rests his forehead against his, and smiles. “I know you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are lovely!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lettersbyelise)!


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